


All this and Heaven too

by tropicalgothic



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, Starts out cute, ends cute again, gets serious in the middle, with accompanying playlist!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 11:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30038229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tropicalgothic/pseuds/tropicalgothic
Summary: Sasori is a shinobi at a time of war. This line of work has many luxuries he couldn't-- he probably shouldn't entertain. Like festivals and dancing, and a future he could look forward to.
Relationships: Karura/Sasori (Naruto)
Kudos: 2
Collections: Multi-Sasori





	All this and Heaven too

Sasori didn’t know when it started— except that it started slow. He searched his memory for a date, and every discovery brought him further and further back. Because there were always things that preluded events, weren’t there? The way the heat would gradually rise from the sands long before anyone officially declared the start of the summer months.

There may have been hints folded neatly into the conversation, waiting to be unfurled. Shy glances, and lingering smiles—- and once someone else would open the door, they would both fly from the scene like startled birds.

But one memory stood out.

The festival music drummed everyone into a frenzied dance. Skirts billowed when the dancers turned; their feet leaped and kicked up the sand; the desert trembled. The village center was a mix of light and color.

Most days, the people of Sunagakure wore the colors of the desert on their long and thick robes. Their only concern was to have the sun off their back and enough space for the cool breeze to course over their skin. But on festival days, Sunagakure was an iridescent prism. The wealthy would come in clothes heavy with embroidered gold and precious gems. The not-so-wealthy would come with their plastic beads, brightly colored tassels, and bangles. But always, everyone would come in vivid colors.

In the chaos, Sasori’s eyes caught on a set of gold beads on a red saree, glinting with the light of a nearby torch. The flare of gold hair matched the embroidery at the hem of her skirt; matched the hem of her blouse, where it cut just below her chest. The pallu that draped over her left shoulder was tied around her waist to keep it steady. (1) But the clumsy sway of her hips, tipsy from stolen wine, loosened the knot. Back then, one glass was enough to color her cheeks a soft rose.

“Stop it!” Karura laughed and turned to hide her face.

The drumming of the music didn’t stop— it went thump, thump, thump, loud enough for Sasori to feel it reverberate through his chest.

“I’m just watching.”

“And judging! I know you’re not one for celebrations-- but you didn’t even dress up,” she gestured to his uniform, heavy with tightly rolled scrolls, kunai, and the specks of blood that never took to water and soap.

“We’re in the middle of a war,” Sasori pointed out, looking down and digging his shoes into the dirt. Why did she even invite him here in the first place? “I don’t understand why we’re having festivals at a time like this.”

People continued to dance around them, kicking up sand and laugher into the air. Funnily, it was the shinobi in the crowd who did that the most-- drowning themselves in the festivities, the drinks, and whatever elixir would fly them far away from Sunagakure. 

Sasori could pick out the faces of those who fought with him at the desert front. The tip of the spear, as the Kazekage called them. Shinobi who could see their futures in the bodies of their fallen allies, picked clean by carrion birds. Acceptance came with the shameless splurging of whatever was left of their lives.

Not that Karura could see it. All she saw was laughter and merriment-- never the dead men that danced around them.

Sasori turned to leave when he felt someone’s hand stop him.

“Are we going home?”

“You should stay,” Sasori untangled Karura’s hands from his arm, slowly, gently, leaving enough room for her to offer up protests. “You’re having fun and all.” Karura followed him home anyway, never more than two steps behind.

Home. Technically, it was Karura and Yashamaru’s home. But Sasori declared it his as well the moment he became old enough to move out of the lonely house he shared with Chiyo. It took her about five days to realize he was no longer coming home and that he was not hiding out in the basement he called a workshop. 

The three of them kept to their schedules and their orbits for most of the day. But between Yasha’s hospital shifts, Karura’s work, and Sasori’s training at the puppet corps, they always found the time to enter each other’s space whenever something felt off. Or someone needed company. Or a shoulder to lean on. Or just to listen.

Sasori stopped just in front of their house. There was no one else in the area— everyone went to the village center. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the music play, and the thump, thump, thump of the drums.

“I’m alright, Karura,” he replied to her worried silence.

Again, Karura held his arm— her hands warm, but the brass bangles she wore were cold against his skin. “I’m not asking you to tell me everything. I just wanted to get you out of your head for a bit.”

“By dancing in a festival?”

Karura shrugged and made the first step towards the door. “I’ve never seen you dance— but most know how to-- or are at least passably okay. Plus there was also food the—”

“Wait,” Sasori stopped her just before they entered the house. A laugh curled at the edge of his lips, “Did you just imply that I couldn’t dance?”

Karura pressed her lips together and held her own smile back. But she couldn’t do the same with her laugh. “I wasn’t the one who said that.” She disappeared into the house then, leaving Sasori outside trying to spin a witty reply.

He came through the door with none. 

Only mild amusement at Karura who had already started playing an old record. There was that same sway, the same turn, and flare of her red dress— daring Sasori to defend his dance skills.

Sasori strutted toward her, pretending he knew how. But Karura laughed his boldness into bashfulness. Suddenly, Sasori could feel whatever facade he’s painted on himself peel off. Starting with the flack jacket that Karura pointed at.

“Are you really going to dance with that heavy thing?” There was an ease with which she unclasped it, leaving Sasori to clumsily shake it off his shoulders.

“Your pallu is pretty heavy too but you still wear it,” Sasori retorted, lifting the pallu from Karura’s shoulder. But in doing so, the tips of his fingers glided against her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He could have sworn he heard her breath hitch.

Now, she was suddenly quiet, fumbling and folding the pallu away.

“Are we, ah,” Karura tucked her hair behind her ear, “ready? To show off your moves?” She shook off the goosebumps with a wry smile. 

Taking his hands, Karura led him into the dance. She brought him through the back and forth of the footwork, and through the push and pull of their arms. They stumbled around the turns-- laughing as Sasori replayed the track until _someone_ could turn without roughly colliding into him. They tiptoed over stepped-on-toes, some accidental and others revenge. Somewhere between _relax I can carry the weight_ and _you’re going to drop me_ , they even managed a proper dip. Eventually, it was Sasori guiding them through the ebb and flow of turns and twirls-- each one bringing Karura a step closer to him.

As the night grew darker and the reverberating sounds of the festival receded, the record moved from its electric rhythm to something more mellow. Less of the energetic kicks and more of the slow swaying of two people not even a step away from each other. Karura’s hand rested on Sasori’s opposite shoulder, her arm drawing them closer still. Sasori’s hand would shift from too high on her back, to too low where skin touched skin, and much too low on her skirt.

Not that Karura seemed to mind. Not that awkward bits ever seemed to spoil the softer moments between them

“What are you thinking of?” Karura laid her head against his shoulder.

There was a right answer to that statement. Sasori was not blind enough to miss the hints of it on her rose cheeks. He could feel the hairs on her skin rise when his fingers brushed her arm. He could hear the sigh, and the hitch in her voice when his hand slid up her bare waist. Karura was close enough that he could feel her lashes tickle his cheek. And he was so sure she could hear——

The echo of a hollow chest, picked clean by carrion birds of any thoughts of a normal future.

Not that Karura could see it. All she saw was an old friend and a new love-- never the dead man she was dancing with. 

Sasori didn’t even know where to begin explaining the reality of fighting in the frontlines--- of knowing that a kunai has embedded itself squarely on your friend’s forehead but never daring to take your eyes off the enemy. Of thoughts of the village and honor dissipating like a mirage in the desert until shinobi were only fighting to survive. Of standing beside shinobi who were much older, more seasoned, and just as desperate-- and wondering which ones won’t make it to the end of the day.

How do you find the space to love in a life like that?

“I’m thinking you look tired,” Karura suddenly said-- how long had he been silent? “It’s okay. We should probably go to bed.” He couldn’t see her expression. He didn’t need to-- he could hear the lump in her throat and the shift in her tone.

Karura tried to pull away, but Sasori kept his arm firmly around her waist. 

Sasori opened his mouth to speak, willing something to come out. Something witty, something smart. For all the books and all the scrolls he’s read, nothing was helping him translate the tangle of emotions that sat right between his ribs. 

“I’m sorry,” was all he could manage-- said so softly he barely heard it himself.

“What for?” This time, Karura moved free from his grasp, brushing him away with the same movement that caught something falling from her eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Karura turned to leave when she felt someone’s hand stop her.

“I don’t like making people wait.”

Karura turned around, the lamplight glittering at the edge of her eyes. “Huh? I don’t understand. We could go up togeth--”

“I mean--” Sasori started, letting go of her arm and shoving his hands into his pockets. “What I meant to say was--” He dug his foot into the ground, only to find the hard sandstone floors where he wanted plain old sand with enough give.

What does he have to give?

He turned his gaze up from his fumbling words to the questions in Karura’s eyes. They have been friends for about a decade now, maybe more. She’s shared with him her dreams of a life of adventure, and a few kids (six was her minimum, and they laughed at that). He’s given her full-blown lectures on art and being an artist, on honing the craft, on having a vision.

Except his vision couldn’t even let him see past this week.

“I don’t like making people wait,” Sasori insisted, lips pressed together and bracing himself for the inevitable _no_. “But I need to ask you to.”

Karura did not say no. She did not say anything.

“I’m not---” Sasori continued, placing his hand over his chest. “I don’t have a festival in here. I know you have--” and that’s not a bad thing, he wanted to add. But the way Karura’s mouth twisted into a grimace that held back a sob made him trip on his words. “I-- I---” What else could he say? “Karura, my heart is a boneyard. It is a hollow of bitterness and regret--- salted earth where flowers and love don’t grow. I can’t build a home for us here.”

That sounded stupid, didn’t it?

Fuck, he fucked up again.

“What I’m saying is,” Sasori looked down at his feet, trying for a take two. “What I’m saying is---”

Suddenly, he felt Karura’s hands wrap around his. “I just need to ask one thing,” Karura said, her head turned down and her thumbs brushing against his skin. “Are you just saying ‘wait’ when you mean ‘no’? Because you don’t have to cushio--”

“I mean I want to, Karura,” his hands felt heavy and rough against hers. “I want to. But I’m not-- I’m not ready--Not yet--”

Sasori did not expect Karura to lift his hands up to her lips and lay a kiss on them. His breath was caught in the inhale-- _Dead man’s hands. Dipped in blood that would never take to soap and water._

“I will be here,” she said. “You will find me here when the war is over-- whether you want a future together or if you end up not wanting to build a home for the both of us.” She smiled, her hand reaching out to cup his cheek. “You’ll always be welcome in mine. You’re worth waiting for, Sasori.”

And just like that, an inhale turned into a sob. He wiped his eyes but the one tear that fell became two and then multiplied again and again-- his vision blurred until he could not see. But Sasori could feel warm arms wrap around his waist and Karura’s head resting on his shoulder. He could feel her tears, silent and wet, pooling over his shirt.

“It’s okay,” she said, her hand gently rubbing his back. “I suppose crying would be socially acceptable if we both do.” 

“I won’t tell,” Sasori mumbled, bringing his arms around her. His shoulders shook with every ragged breath. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Karura laughed with that familiar brightness he’s come to know over the years. “Come to bed, Sas.” She pulled away from the embrace, took him by the hand, and led him to her room. “If anyone asks, the headache is because of the wine.”

They lay in bed, wrapped in fresh pajamas and blankets, sharing Karura’s pillow. She fell asleep with her hand over his, comfortable even if they lie only inches away from each other. Here, in her bedroom, the festival faded away. There were no bright lights, no loud drumming, no heavy clothes with golden tassels and sand kicked all over the place. There were no paper bombs, no flying kunai, no blood (enemy or otherwise) splattered across his chest.

There was only the quiet breath of someone fast asleep, and the steady rhythm of a heartbeat being passed between two people.

_You’ll always be welcome in mine._

Of course, Karura could not see it-- what she was agreeing to, with no promises of any returns. No one would willingly invite dead men into their homes, and definitely not into their hearts. That would be foolish. Absolutely foolish.

Perhaps, almost as foolish as walking into that home and believing that he could-- he might-- he would survive long enough to stay.

Once Sasori was sure that Karura was fast asleep, he lifted himself up and laid a kiss on her cheek. He lingered in that moment, wondering what to say, if he should even say something. What this all meant.

Looking back at that evening many years ago, at the kiss she planted on his hands and the one he laid on her cheek, Sasori was sure that they were the first seeds-- sown into salted earth so quietly that he didn’t even notice.

“Are you sure you want this?” Karura stood beside him, wearing the traditional red and gold.

“I might get cold feet if you ask me one more time,” Sasori laughed. Quietly. Anything above a whisper in Sunagakure’s great temple echoed. But he reached out and held her hand, dark henna flowers coiling around it.

“I suppose if we waited a bit more, I wouldn’t fit in the gown anymore.” They both laughed at that-- loud enough for the officiating priestess to turn her head sharply at them. They both sheepishly looked down, trying to keep with the solemnity of the ritual, and the priestess continued.

“You could just say you got fat,” Sasori _had_ to whisper back.

Karura hardened her grip on his hand. “Hey, hey, don’t act like you didn’t contribute to this.” They both snuck glances at each other, trying not to laugh. But as the priestess continued speaking, Karura’s grip relaxed-- almost letting go. 

Sasori caught her hand before it slipped away. “What are you thinking of?”

“I’m thinking-- You don’t have to do this for me, Sas,” she turned her head down, lighting biting her lip. “I know it’s--- that some feelings have been complicated, even after the war. That’s okay. This isn’t a responsibility you have to fulfill for me.” Then, with a quiet laugh, she added. “Socially speaking-- I mean. I definitely expect you to help me change the diapers. You’re also going to get me food when the weird cravings that come with pregnancy starts.”

Karura continued to speak, but her words faded together with the low voice of the priestess who spoke in a language older than Sunagakure itself. Sasori knew that language, though it was more complicated than Suna’s vernacular. Still, he found that the words in both languages so easily get stuck in his throat--- especially in moments when he needed them the most. 

What meaningful thing could he say? Should he tell her about the way the heat would gradually rise from the sands until summer arrives? Should he tell her about moments neatly folded into conversation, finally unfurling? Should he tell her about the festival drums that started in his chest?

“Karura,” Sasori started, even if he didn’t have anything meaningful strung together. “Thank you--- for waiting, I mean.” His thumb brushed against her hand. “I’m sorry it took this long.”

He watched her eyes shift from questioning to a soft understanding. _Really?_ she mouthed, tears forming at the edge of her eyes.

Sasori nodded his head, reaching forward to catch a tear before it fell. “Careful-- I worked hard on that make-up.”

Karura laughed, loud enough for its echo to bounce around the great temple. The priestess in front of them sighed, “Alright, let’s just finish this up,” she said, handing the book to one of the aides. “Do you have your vows?”

Sasori nodded, not taking his eyes off Karura-- just as she kept her eyes on him. He could feel the thrumming of the festival drums in his chest. He could envision a future for them.

Turns out, even in salted earth filled with bitterness and regret, flowers and love can still grow.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Pallu - loose end of a sari, usually draped over the shoulder


End file.
